Reaching
by Light-The-Pages-Of-History
Summary: She raises her arms. He reaches. And it cannot carry on like this.
1. Chapter 1

**I know the ending of this is a bit rubbish but I'm happy with it as a first go. I know Feuilly/Éponine is a bit weird but I'm weirdly fascinated by Feuilly, I think there's a lot more to him then the little you get to see in the brick. Tell me it's crap (or if it's good, you can tell me that too :D )**

**Chapter 1**

The Seine swirls and crashes over the weir below her, the sheer weight of water tumbling over the steps in the river bed sending up spray like welcoming, beckoning fingers. It is calling her. She has walked back and forth over the bridge five times now. It is broad daylight, fiacres containing the wealthy bourgeois of Paris trundle over the cobbles, in stark contrast to the beggarman with no legs and his gaunt faced daughter who beseech the passers-by for alms. It makes her sick. This grey, monotonous city presses in on her. Suddenly she is breathless, gasping, eyes squeezed tight as she grips the balustrade to steady herself.

She can't stay here any longer. Not like this.

No one will take notice of this lonely, ragged soul quietly exiting the world from the _Pont au Change _in the middle of the day. The fiacres will continue to trundle and the beggars will continue to rattle their tin mugs. The world will go on turning. And more importantly, _his _world will go on turning. She can't escape the cycle to which she was born, not like this. She has seen and done things at the tender age of 17 that would make the respectable young women about town raise gloved hands to mouths in shock and in horror.

She leans her head against the stone, back hunched to reveal all the vertebrae of her spine, pressing through her thin chemise. She has not known a full belly in longer than she can remember. Hunger is her constant companion, along with the unspeakable things she does and abets in order to fill the aching hole inside. The dirty nails and leering mouths of men whose faces she has blocked from memory swim under her closed eyelids. The pleading of the young student being beaten and robbed as she watches at the corner of the alley for the police fills her ears. No more.

She draws herself up and takes a last look at the grey sky. '_Alors, au revoir,´_ she whispers and then she hitches up her skirt to about her knees, unashamed and past caring, before pulling herself up onto the wide, stone balustrade. She drops her skirt and draws herself to her full height. A sense of deep calm falls over her and she closes her eyes. The breeze caresses her face and she is reminded briefly of her father's adoring touch when she was a child, when she was loved. A sharp gust of wind jerks her back to reality and she tells herself bitterly that this time has long since passed. None of the passers-by have noticed her slight form above the edge of the bridge, arms arched above her head as she rises to her tiptoes. She is resolute and unafraid.

'_Au revoir.'_

But the sweet release of free fall does not come. Instead come arms around her middle and a grunt from behind as she crashes down on top of a human form. She can't move for a moment, all the breath knocked out of her lungs. The body upon which she has fallen pushes her off of him and rolls over to cough and splutter into the pavement whilst she fights for breath. She looks over and sees him on his hands and knees. He is young, perhaps a student though he does not have the look of bourgeois about him. His coat is threadbare at the elbows and hangs open at the neck to reveal a pale white neck. His shirt is unbuttoned to his throat, his cravat loose. He sits back on his heels and looks down at her. The other pedestrians on the bridge are funnelling around them as though this man has not just saved this girl from suicide in the Seine. The world goes on turning.

He stands without a word, brushes himself off and offers her his hands, which she accepts. Once she is on her feet and sufficiently recovered her breath, she draws back her palm and slaps him squarely on the jaw with surprising force. He holds his mouth in astonishment.

'My dear Mademoiselle, I _implore _you to impart to me – '

'Aware of my intention, you think you can come here and take _my _life into _your _hands? You think you can be gallant and noble and call me _mademoiselle_ and give me your hands? I know what you think of people like me, you students are all the same. You had no right!' she all but screams at him. There is a look of genuine pity in his eyes and again he reaches out to her but she spits at his feet. She is past caring about the spectacle she is making of herself. She notes the ink smudged into his fingers and the charcoal dust on his face and knows she is wrong, that he is not a student, just a craftsman, probably working for pittance at one of the _ateliers _down by the river. But she continues because she is hurting so deeply, she is so tired of this pretence, and she needs to feel just once that the world is taking notice.

'I don't need your pity. I don't need your help. If you knew what you were pulling me back to, you would not have done it. You would have pushed me. I hope you burn in hell!'

And tears are falling but she is running before he sees. People whisper as they look on from the opposite side of the bridge. To them, she is just another street girl. She probably solicits her services as a _fille de joie _beneath the bridge, she has that look of hollowed-out desperation about her. She runs barefoot as the heavens above her open. Seeking shelter in an alley, she curls her arms around her knees and sobs, hoping that if she stays still long enough, the rain will drown her where she is.

She doesn't know that he stayed there on the bridge, watching her run and that his heart ached for her. Because he knows the pain and solitude of her life. He is not bourgeois. Not by a long shot. He is struggling on with life as the world keeps turning about him and he knows, maybe better than anyone, how it feels to have the city press in from all sides. How it feels to hear the call of the river or the rope or the musket he knows the landlord keeps downstairs.

He wipes a hand across his cheek, artist's fingers smudging a charcoal mark towards his ear. He knows. And he knows that this is not the Paris he can carry on living in. Not when a girl like her could jump off a bridge in broad daylight and never be missed. Not like this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Review already *excited face* thank you very much and I hope you like the next part.**

* * *

The next morning, he rises with the dawn, seeking to leave his lodgings before the landlord comes to his door with the rent book. He has never missed his rent but he is terribly short on money at the moment. If he can just elude the landlord until he gets back from work with his week's wages, he'll be ok. He strips off the shirt that he slept in and breaks the ice on the washbasin in the corner. The Parisian weather is unforgiving, even in early may the nights are still cold, and he shivers in the semi-darkness. He doesn't light candles unless he has to bring work home with him, the cost is just too much, and so he lives in an almost permanent state of partial visibility.

He works as a fan maker down by the river, earning three francs a day for his painstaking toil over the decoration of the paper leaves, the beautifully painted _feuilles _for which he earned his nickname Feuilly, andthe careful assembly of the delicate components.

As he quietly goes about his morning ministrations, he thinks of the girl from the _Pont au Change. _The way her shabby blouse gaped to reveal the sharp jut of her collarbone. The way she shook as she raged at him. But what struck him most was the way she spoke. She spoke the formal French of the upper class and the students, not the harsh argot that one would expect of a _gamine _like her.

He puts on his coat and silently exits the apartment block. As he makes his way to the _atelier _by the riverside he passes beneath the _Pont au Change. _Its stone mass casts heavy shadow over him as he hurries to reach the relative warmth of the fan maker's workshop. No one pays him heed, the skinny craftsmen with the threadbare coat who walks with purpose but whose thoughts rest on a girl, a child of the underworld who speaks as if with sugar on her tongue.

* * *

The next time they encounter one another is at the _Musain_. The students are gathered in the back room and Enjolras is speech-making, whilst Grantaire knocks back wine in the corner and Coufeyrac loudly concurs with their leader. Enjolras is the golden boy who speaks of revolution and freedom for the people and liberation of the working class but who has never known true hunger or how cobblestones cut into bare feet.

'Feuilly, so glad that you could make it. What say you on the subject?' calls Enjolras. He frowns and knows that Enjolras is chastising him for his lateness. As far as Enjolras is concerned, revolution is life blood. If believers do not devote all of their attentions to the cause, it is lost before it has begun.

'I say education for the people Enjolras and _then _political revolution. Knowledge is ultimate power,' he calls back. The golden boy gives him a curt nod and he knows he is forgiven. He glances around. Joly is tugging the wine bottle from Grantaire's hands, his ever present lecture about the toxic effects of alcohol on the body falling on deaf ears. Jehan, the romantic, is scribbling on the back of one of Enjolras' pamphlets, probably penning sweet nothings to the current _grisette _of his affections. And a strangers face, a young boy in an oversized trench coat that looked so old, it had probably seen Waterloo. The boy was stood in the dark back corner, gaze fixed not on Enjolras but on the back of Marius' head. Marius was a relatively new addition to the group at the _Musain, _a Bonapartist who had been cut off by his rich grandfather and now lived as a pauper in Coufeyrac's lodgings. The boy turns his head for a moment, only he is not a boy but a girl, the _gamine _from the bridge with her hair twisted into a man's cap and her skinny legs clad in breeches.

She does not see Feuilly but he recognises her instantly. Women are not permitted into the inner sanctum that is the back room of the_ Café Musain, _save the scullery girl, Louison, who generally tries to avoid it since Grantaire always seems to take a fancy to her when the wine has taken its toll. This, he supposes, is the reason for her disguise. She is slight enough in figure that with her hair scraped back; she looks just like a boy.

He inches past chairs, trying not to knock Combeferre's myriad of pamphlets and text books off the table, and stands beside the girl as Enjolras draws his speech to a close.

'And it is for the liberty of the people that we fight my brothers! Tell me, what is the motto that guards this nation? _Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité! _Until the citizens of France, and by that I mean every citizen, from the lowliest _gavroche –_' 'OI YOU!' comes an interjection from the front, where the little street boy whom the group had taken under their wing and nicknamed _gavroche_, that is, street urchin, is sitting. Enjolras flashes a rare grin. 'From the lowliest to the richest, until each person is united under the terms of the great motto, our struggle does not cease. Until a fair and free republic is installed, where the social hierarchy that cripples the poor and lavishes on the rich is arrested for good, and where every man is equal with his neighbour, our fight continues.'

There is a rumble of consent from _les amis _and some of them gather around Enjolras as he sits and looks over the pamphlets they are to distribute the next day. Feuilly is as much in favour of the revolution as any of them but his is a quiet dissent from the current social and judicial systems and the poverty which chokes the city. He is not a student of law or medicine, he is not endowed with prowess in public speaking and he knows not how to rally the people to a rolling, burning passion like Enjolras can. Whilst the others are gifted in knowledge of the theory of what they are fighting for, he sees it up close and ugly every day. From the family of eight living in one room down the corridor from him to the old woman who wonders the riverbank in her slippers and undergarments because her mind has unravelled and there is no one to look after her. And again, in this boy who is in fact a girl.

'Forgive me _mademoiselle _but I don't believe after we have been properly introduced. I feel as though I should at least know your name so that I may compliment you on the excellence of the right hook you delivered to me yesterday on the bridge,' says Feuilly, eyes fixed straight ahead on the mess of papers that the rest of the _amis _are poring over in the middle of the room. Her head snaps up. He glances sideways and sees something beneath the grime and the premature age in her eyes that could almost be quite beautiful. But it soon disappears beneath a curled lip and a hiss like that of a cat. She whirls around and stalks out of the room.

He feels compelled to follow her. She may dress like a _gamin _and frequent the meetings of political cells with men sucking down absinthe and speaking of revolution, but she is a woman nonetheless and he knows what dangers lay in the alleyways around the café. When the sun sets on the city, the underworld comes out to play and with gangs like the _Patron Minette _in the area, it goes against his nature to let her leave alone.

He sees her hurrying down the dark street and calls out.

'_Mademoiselle _if you please!'

She stops and he notices her fists curl. He slows as he nears her and she turns.

'Why do you insist on calling me that? _Mademoiselle,' _she mimics, sneering at him, 'I know what you are. Here you speak of revolution as you sit in your warm café. Here you speak of freedom and equality for the people, squandering your money on inebriation whilst people like me are left to walk the streets another night. It's all games to you isn't it? Here you speak of liberation, yet you don't see what is under your nose.'

He is taken aback by the eloquence of her speech. The cadence of her voice is rough and her face is unforgiving in its look of disgust towards him, but he feels as though he could carry on listening to her insult him and his friends all night. He realises she has stopped speaking and is regarding him with one eyebrow cocked.

'Forgive me. I wish not to cause you discomfort by calling you _mademoiselle. _I will desist immediately, I swear it. I never intended to bring you any sorrow, merely to offer you a hand in your time of need,' he tells her, almost anxiously. She remains tacit and so he continues. 'It is not my intention to cause offence by following you out here, or indeed to have driven you from the café in the first place. You are more than welcome to return to the warm and listen further to the plans. But if you insist on leaving now, please allow me to escort you to your lodgings. The streets are not safe at night.'

She almost smiles, just for a moment. Of course, he does not know that she was born to the street life, to the gang life. He is not aware that if she were to encounter the _Patron Minette _she would greet them in argot and they would probably pull her along on their job. She regards him a moment more, his thin body and wide, sincere eyes and again the charcoal smudged on his face.

'I will not require you to escort me _monsieur_. To you perhaps, the streets are unsafe, but I take my lodging in the alleys tonight. Go back to your revolution,' she says curtly and she turns to leave.

'Wait,' he says. 'If I am not to call you _mademoiselle _then perhaps you might tell me your name.'

She carries on walking but calls back over her shoulder.

'My name is Éponine.'

He watches her disappear before going back into the café and helping Joly to haul Grantaire to his feet.

She allows the smallest of smiles to escape and it so takes her by surprise that it draws her up short. If he has insisted on knowing her name, then he must intend for them to encounter one another again. She tells herself that the _amis _are not to be trusted and that she will never accept their help or friendship.

Yet the thought of the charcoal smudged artist who followed her into the street to ensure her safety makes her face relax from its usual frown of consternation and it is small, but it is the beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry I haven't updated as regularly as I would have liked . I know the ending of the story but I'm struggling to piece together the middle. The fact I haven't properly written anything in years probably doesn't help. So we get a bit of Montparnasse here. I'm trying to stay as book canon as possible but sorry if I've gotten anything mixed up. Reviews welcome!**

* * *

Éponine is in love with Marius. It is clear for the entire world to see. She yearns for him. She follows him when he is walking home at night and because she has spent her whole life learning to be small and invisible, he never knows. There was a time where he might have thought her pretty. Before the custom in Montfermeil started to wain and the inn started to fail. Before the strain of too many mouths to feed and no money to feed them had pushed her parents deep into Paris to seek other ways of earning money.

When she was a child, Éponine had been the apple of her father's eye. She had been beautifully dressed and spoilt as far as her parents' humble income would allow and, how she cringes to think of it now, she had picked fun at Cosette. Cosette, the pauper child they had taken in all those years ago under the guise of charity and then abused almost as a slave in the inn and used to extort money from her wretched mother. Strange then, that Cosette should reappear after all these years, in Paris and on the arm of a gentlemen rich enough to give alms. That she should be the one who is well dressed and softly spoken and innocent, and above all that she should capture Marius' heart in the way that she has.

Éponine is still brooding on the harsh turn of fate that has reversed their roles so dramatically when she returns from the _Musain _and lets herself into the crumbling apartment block where her family, if you can call them that, will be waiting. She has no intention of staying tonight. As she expects, her father is sitting at the writing desk, penning missives to benefactors which he will no doubt ask Éponine to deliver. He mutters under his breath as the pencil scratches the page. They have been using this scheme for years as a means of earning money from people too stupid to see past the stories. During their time in Paris, Éponine has been the daughter of a crippled man who has not eaten in a week, she has been the illegitimate child of a baron and a _grisette _who cannot get work because everyone knows her background. She remembers with a shiver when her father forced her sister to put her hand through a window pane so that Éponine could take her out and show the bloody, poorly bandaged mess to one of the benefactors and beg for money to take the child to a doctor. Éponine has play-acted all these roles to support her parents' crooked schemes but not anymore.

No. She will not stay tonight.

'I see you've finally had the decency to return to your family then,' her father says snidely, not looking up. Her fists clench and she breathes out then sets to collecting a few things, not that she has much to collect.

He looks as up as she rummages in the cupboard for a shawl. Her sister is curled silently on the bed and her mother is squatting before the hearth, stirring broth in a cast iron pot.

'Where do you think you're going? I've got a job for you. Rich bloke's moved in by the fountain square, the guys think he's rather charitable to _les misérables de Paris, _the silly bastard,' he chuckles. His use of argot, the underworld slang of Paris, grates on her. She can rarely bring herself to use it these days, it makes her skin crawl and she feels as though there is a weight on her back that she can't shake it off.

'I'm not doing your job, I've got other business to attend to tonight,' she replies, wrapping the thin woollen shawl around her shoulders. Throughout the exchange, her mother and Azelma remain silent, faces turned away from what they know will ensue.

Her father rises from the desk. He is no longer the landlord, no longer the master of the house, no longer the jovial and beaming man that he used to be. He is clad in trousers with a makeshift belt fashioned from string and a woman's blouse. In this hellhole of an apartment, with his wife crouched before their meagre supper, his youngest daughter passive and withdrawn and his sons disappeared, claimed by the streets, he has no dignity and no pride. Éponine has squared up to him and challenges him with her eyes.

'You will stay here and you will do what I tell you,' he says, threateningly.

'No.'

His hand flies out and catches her square on the jaw with such force that she stumbles backwards and cries out. In a moment he has her by the neck of her chemise and yanks her towards him, his face so close to hers that he can see the spit flying from the corners of his mouth.

'Leave then you good-for-nothing hussy! You think you're so high and mighty because you hang around the students in the Latin Quarter. You are no greater than I _mademoiselle_,' he cries, voice rising, before throwing her on to the floor. 'You go back to them you slut. Whoring around is all you're good for.' She pushes herself to her hands and knees, tasting blood and seeing stars. Before her father can take out his shame on her any further she stumbles from the room, making it down the stairs and turning into the bitterly cold night.

She walks blindly until she comes to an abrupt halt near the rusted iron gate at the back garden of the house on the _Rue Plumet. _She slams her hand against the wall because she doesn't know why she's come here of all places. It's past eleven o' clock by now and she knows that Marius will be in that garden. He will be sitting next to Cosette on a stone bench and they will be looking at each other with star glazed eyes and hearts so much more innocent and pure than hers is. It was she who had bought him here in the first place, she who had carefully made enquiries so that she could surprise him by showing him where his sweetheart lived. She had been so sure that this would change the dynamic between them. But he had pressed money into her hand, money that she did not want, not for this, and then forgotten all about her, so enamoured was he with the golden haired Cosette.

She walks slowly down the street, hands trailing the wall, wondering what to do, where to go. There will no longer be anyone at the _Musain _and she knows that if she stays out in the frigid night, she could curl up to sleep and be dead by morning. She knows of one place where she will probably not be turned away but she knows what she will have to do when she turns up there. She doesn't know if she can face that tonight and so she continues on her slow way, but her head snaps up when she hears footsteps from the other end of the street.

It seems as though her mind has been made up for her.

'Montparnasse, a pleasure as always,' she calls.

The wiry figure draws closer to her. He is dark haired with full lips and pale skin, an angel face, a baby face, yet he is one of the most notorious murderers in the underworld. He smirks as his eyes rake over her but she simply cocks an eyebrow and looks straight at him.

'Well 'Ponine fancy finding you round here. Not looking for lover boy were you,' Montparnasse murmurs, pulling out his knife and very conspicuously stroking the blade. Her heart flutters at the sight of the shiny silver but she remains unyielding.

'Why of course not, just out for a little stroll as my living situation is no longer supportable it would seem,' she replies nonchalantly, making as though to leave. He puts a hand on the wall above her head, forcing her to press back against the cold brick and feel his hot breath on her face.

'Well you know what arrangements can be made regarding your living situation, little Éponine,' he leers. She flinches, palms pressed flat against the wall, as he inches the hand holding the knife upwards and oh so delicately uses the tip to lift the hem of her chemise. The cold air hits her bare stomach and she suddenly feels so sick that she retches.

'I hope you won't do that when we get back to my place, _gamine_. I like to keep tidy lodgings,' he cackles, pushing away from the wall and sauntering off into the dark night. He knows that she will follow. Usually, she joins in coyly with his banter, not thinking about what she's doing and keeping her eyes closed throughout, counting down from a hundred until he rolls off her and she can go to sleep in the warm. No, this is not the first time she has done this to spare herself a night on the streets.

But it's the first time she has wished for someone to step out and pull her back, save her.

Nevertheless, no one comes and she follows him, hating herself more and more with every step she takes.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **WOW Ok so I just got a review today and I feel so bad that I've neglected this fic for so long. My ideas basically dried up and I've been ridiculously busy with school so I abandoned my fanfic. I'm sorry guys. EVERYONE WHO HAS COMMENTED DESERVES MASSIVE FACE KISSES. My inspiration has returned, I will do my darned best to update more regularly and voila, enjoy :) (PS. I'm trying to follow the brick canon timeline but it's probably not going to go entirely to plan, please bear with if it's a bit off)

* * *

The weeks and then months press on and suddenly they find themselves in June and talk of an uprising is thick in the air at the _Musain. _Enjolras, ever their golden leader, riles them into a seething mass of anger against society and the shoddy July Monarchy on an almost nightly basis. Feuilly, who is not a student and has always held himself slightly in reserve at the meetings of the _amis, _cannot help but get caught up in the excitement. He pores over maps with the excitable Coufeyrac and they all ignore Combeferre who is making careful lists about what weapons they already have and where they're going to get gun powder from.

One night, at the end of a particularly stirring meeting where everyone has drunk their fair share of wine, Feuilly included, Enjolras gets up on a table and the room falls silent.

'Friends, listen. General Lamarque is fading fast and there is little time left. The time is drawing near where we shall take our places and fight for the liberty of our nation. How much longer must the citizens of Paris be enslaved I ask you? How much longer must we look on as our children die in the gutters from cholera and the rich and the politicians turn their heads away? The time is coming brothers, and when it does, we shall be here!' he calls. There is a roar of assent.

Grantaire rises unsteadily and stumbles to the front of the room. It is common knowledge that he turns to the bottle for solace. None of them know what he might have faced that brought him to be dependent on the sweet numbing of alcohol but out of courtesy to him, they do not ask. Enjolras tolerates his presence among them but is often moved to anger by Grantaire's drinking songs and falling asleep anywhere he puts his head.

Enjolras' fiery eyes fade with the slightest hint of unease as he watches Grantaire's approach.

'We must rally the students and the workers – anyone who will join us. Courfeyrac I trust you are still able to talk to the students of the law school? And Joly, Combeferre, the medical school? All we need now is someone to approach the artists -' Enjolras breaks off as Grantaire comes to stand directly in front of him.

'I'll take the artists,' he says. Enjolras cocks an eybrow.

'You don't believe in this revolution Grantaire. Why would you volunteer your services now,' Enjolras scoffs. Grantaire does not falter but spreads his arms wide.

'I shall tell them of your revolution and your principle and the sovereignty of the people of Paris, indeed of France, and I shall tell them of the glory awaiting them on the barricade!'

Enjolras rolls his eyes. 'Be serious.'

Grantaire lifts his head defiantly. 'I am wild.'

They stare each other down for a minute before Enjolras gives a curt nod.

'Go now, then.'

Grantaire leaves the café and there is a beat of silence before Enjolras takes a shuddery breath and continues his speech-making. Feuilly is sitting closest to the door so he is the first to notice when she slips inside. She's been frequenting the meetings of the _Amis de L'ABC _for months now. It's plain enough for all of them to see that she is besotted with Marius, who joins in the battle preparations with gusto but who has no sense of direction. Most of the time she ignores Feuilly, brushes past him and takes up her sentry post in the corner of the room. Sometimes they will stand next to each other whilst Enjolras riles everyone up, occasionally he walks down the street with her when night falls and the meeting has ended.

She never permits him to go further than the turning into the main road, and he has to catch his tongue to stop insisting that he accompany her further. That he keep her safe. He has never accepted charity or help where it's not due, not from anybody. In that respect, they are not so different. In this stolen time she tells him about where she comes from and the things she has done to put food in her stomach and sleep in safety. She tells him that since it has been the same for such a long time, she doesn't see why _les amis _are so sure they will change anything.

'I see things you know,' she tells him on this particular night, as they approach the place where their journeys split. 'The cholera is killing so many more people than they're telling you. Children are dying in the streets and I've seen it, I've seen mothers holding their dead babies and crying like the world has ended and then they go to the taps and drink the same water that's killing their children.' They reach the junction and she whirls around to face them.

His breath catches a little when he sees her like this, eyes wracked with sadness and despair but hair silver in the moonlight. He knows that now is not the time but cannot deny her beauty in this moment.

'Nothing is changing and my heart breaks,' she tells him. 'I don't see what you have to believe in, to make you fight when the outcome is so hopeless.'

Emboldened by the wine and the darkness he takes her hand and to his relief she does not pull away.

'I know that you do not want or need any help from us,' he begins slowly, not breaking eye contact once. 'But it's people like you who make me fight. You deserve more than the lot you've been given. Babies don't deserve to die in squalor like that.' He brushes his thumb over her wrist and swallows tightly when she shivers.

'It's easy, I think, for Enjolras to get caught up in the theory of what he is fighting for. You show me the reality.'

Tears have filled her eyes and she leans in to him. His eyes close.

'I'm not worth fighting for,' she breathes against his ear.

Her lips ghost over his cheek and before he can open his mouth to tell her all the reasons why she is, she's gone, disappeared into the shadows of the alleyway. He stands there, stupid, and wonders what is worse: the fact that she is constantly running from him or the fact that he never follows.


	5. Chapter 5

**Ok, it's late and I haven't really proof read, I just wanted to get this up since I'm going to be very busy in the next week with school so sorry if there are any glaring mistakes. FEUILLY BACK STORY YAY also Feuilly/Éponine cuddles. Still not decided whether smut is going to happen, I'm not very good at writing at it and I prefer this kind of soft, gentle thing that they've got going on, but we'll see. Enjoy mes chéris and thanks for all the lovely comments and new follows. Please let me know how you liked this chapter and if you have any suggestions or prompts :) a la prochaine xxx**

**(sorry for this super long AN, but just to say that I have no idea of the geography of the Seine so please excuse my artistic license regarding the scenery. This is now three days before the rebellion)**

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Feuilly has not always been a fan maker in Paris. He grew up in a fishing village in Brittany, could swim almost before he could walk, and learnt to tie knots and cast lines and haggle at market instead of learning to read or write. He still does heavy lifting on the boats coming up the Seine every now and then, to earn extra money when he can't quite make his rent.

He didn't learn to appreciate beauty as a child. He was bought up on the seashore, hands already calloused from years of hauling nets and tying knots by the time he was fifteen. His mother had died in childbirth and even at this tender age Feuilly understood that his father's hard and uncaring exterior was born of grief. Feuilly understood that the reason his father had so little to do with him, save for barking orders on the boat or muttering a gruff goodnight after dinner, was that to look at Feuilly was to see an inescapable reminder of the woman he had loved being snatched from life.

* * *

'_François! Go back! Go back!' _

He woke gasping and reaching out, bathed in cold sweat. _Not again. _

Feuilly sat up and leant his elbows on his knees, clutching his head in his hands and squeezing his eyes shut until his erratic breathing returned to normal. He didn't often have this dream anymore but the effect it had on him was the same every time.

Feuilly scrubbed a hand over his face and got up, pulling off his shirt and leaning over the washing basin in the corner to look at his face in the mirror. He did not remember his mother but everyone said that she was beautiful. He studied himself, seeing his father's nose and stern mouth reflected in his own face. His eyes were a deep, almost shocking, blue and he had dark curly hair, whereas his father had been fair-haired with green eyes. Was this all that his mother had gifted him? Her hair and eyes?

Feuilly bows his head and can't stop the images replaying behind his closed eyelids. The storm blowing into the bay, the men on the fishing boat rowing like their lives depended on it to beat the storm and get their catch in before it was too late. His father, yelling and directing and desperately hauling the fishermen onto the relative safety of the dock. Feuilly, running down to try and help and cowering back from the ferocious spray and rollicking waves, already drenched to the core from the almost horizontal sheets of rain. He could only look on in terror as his father jumped down into the boat and starting throwing nets up. When a ferocious wave slammed the boat into the stone edge of the dock, he shut his eyes. By the time he forced himself to look again, his father was no longer in the boat.

They recovered his body the next day, when the storm had passed, bloated with water and almost unrecognisable. Two days after that, Feuilly left and within two weeks, half-starved and barely able to stand, having walked, hitchhiked and stowed away, he had arrived in Paris.

Feuilly is no stranger to poverty. He has scavenged in bins and slept rough and though he is too ashamed to admit that he has ever done it, he has begged. His first months in Paris were the worst of his life. Before managing to become apprenticed to a fan making workshop down by the river, near where he often slept under the bridge, he fought and stole and he's not proud of it. It was out of pity that the workshop owner took him in and Feuilly has never once complained about his job – there are hundreds of street children in Paris who would have given anything for an opportunity like the one he had. The owner of the workshop let him sleep in the supply room in the back, surrounded by the musty smell of wood and paper and the sharp scent of ink. He slept there on a blanket and piles of soft sawdust from the packing crates for almost two years. He's never tried to explain it to the others because they're all students who he knows are going to change the world one day, but art to Feuilly is not just a profession; it's home.

* * *

It's nearing dusk by the time Alexandre, the owner of the workshop, calls to them to clean up; he's shutting up shop in the front. Feuilly rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles before setting out the day's work on a wooden rack to dry and packing his ink and brushes into their box. His fingers and back are stiff from the hours he has spent today, inking cherry blossom onto creamy paper but he's getting paid extra this week for his overtime so he doesn't mind the pain. The other fan makers are chattering amongst themselves as they pack away but Feuilly keeps to himself, shrugging on his threadbare coat, jamming a hat over his curls and nodding goodbye as he leaves the workshop. The air outside is muggy and he's already perspiring underneath his wool coat so he takes of his hat and runs a hand through his hair, fanning himself a little against the oppressive, airless night. He turns to make his way under the bridge and just as he crosses into its shadow, someone catches his elbow and pulls him back.

For a split second, fear chokes him. The street gangs in Paris are notorious and whilst it's not all that late, he's heard enough stories of disappearances and murders and robberies from such groups as the _Patron-Minette _to be afraid. A hand goes over his mouth just as he's about to start scuffling and upon seeing who the hand belongs to he goes lax, stepping back and catching his breath.

'For the love of God Éponine, is that really-' he begins to protest but she takes his hand and he can't remember the rest of what he was going to say anymore.

'Come on,' she says, and he lets her pull him further along the river.

His heart is slamming in his chest and he keeps shaking his head, trying to pull it together even though her hand is warm in his and she walks like she owns the street. They get to where a stone staircase leads down to the river and she goes first, treading carefully over the slippery steps. He peers after her and makes out a place where the river laps at a small stretch of pebbles. There are children chasing each other and people huddled around a fire and he can make out Éponine greeting people as she goes. He follows.

'Pick up some pebbles,' she instructs and he sees she's holding out her blouse to collect smooth, round stones in. He does as instructed and follows her further up the small embankment until they are standing on the stone foundation of the _Pont au Change, _the water lapping beneath their feet. She crouches and skips a stone. He carefully watches her action, fitting the pebble between her thumb and forefinger, the sharp flick of her wrist, straightening up on her heels as she watches it arc across the inky water. She looks up at him, and he gets down and copies. All this time, he has not said a word. He can't bear to break the magic of whatever this is by speaking.

'I don't understand you, you know,' she tells him, skipping another pebble. 'You hang around the others and you hang off Enjolras' every word and you plan this so-called revolution but you're not like them are you?'

He keeps his eyes on the motion of her slim wrist and long fingers, skipping pebble after pebble into the Seine.

'I suppose not,' he agrees. 'I don't come from the same places that they do but I believe the same things you know? I've seen things too, just like you have.' He sighs and sits back, leaning against the wall behind him. 'I won't accept what I haven't earned but I know rough living and I know it's hard. I don't want any more people to have to go through it. That's why I fight and why I have to believe in something better.' Éponine sits back too.

'I wish I could believe in things like you do. It's strange to think but I guess I'm more like Grantaire than anyone else,' she laughs and her face lights up for a second. His fingers ache to trace the creases at the corners of her mouth when she smiles. 'I'm cynical. I've lived it too long, I don't see it changing. But if it's going to be different, I believe that you're going to make it so.'

Feeling brave, he takes her hand and turns it palm-up to run his fingertips over the fine bones of her wrist. They're quiet for a moment and then he suddenly lifts her arm closer to his face and pulls up her sleeve. There are mottled, fingerprint shaped bruises marking her arm, circling around as though someone has grabbed her too hard. He looks up sharply and sees her gaze has hardened. She does not try to cover herself; in fact she pulls the neck of her blouse aside and shows him similar marks on her throat.

'Éponine,' he breathes, reaching up to touch them but she yanks away and gets up.

'This is why I'm scared of nothing changing,' she says, hands gesturing and voice rising. He stands, keeping his distance. 'I'm not ashamed of how this happens but it doesn't mean I want it to happen. It doesn't mean it's not happening to a whole load of other _gamines _like me. I don't want your sympathy. I just want you to understand.' This time, when he reaches for her, she does not pull away.

He clasps her wrists in his hands, thumbs brushing up over her forearms.

'I understand,' he tells her. 'Probably better than you'd think.'

He can feel her shaking so he takes of his coat and drapes it round her. He hesitates for a second but decides they're already in too deep for him to be worrying.

'There's space for you. In my rooms, I mean, it's not much and it's not me being sympathetic but you don't have to go back out there tonight if you don't want to,' he says earnestly. She nods and they walk back up the river bank, up the stairs and towards Feuilly's apartment block.

This time it's not one leading the other or one running from the other, it's the both of them leaning on each other for support and closeness. She falls asleep on his bed and he curls around her, covering her fisted hand with his.

He's still not sure what this warm, bright thing is that's growing between them but as he drifts off, he feels a sense of completeness, not knowing that there was something missing until this girl, this _gamine _slotted into his life in the way that she did.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: badass!Feuilly. OOOOYEA.**

* * *

Feuilly wakes suddenly again but this time, his dream slips his mind the second he comes back to reality. For a second he's confused, he can't place the unfamiliar weight draped over his arm and shoulder and the foreign smell of sweat and river water.

_Éponine, _he remembers. _Éponine came home with me. She came home with me and now she is in my bed. _

They have both shifted in their sleep and she's still wrapped in his coat but is now lying almost on top of him, covering his body with hers. He stares at the ceiling, not sure what to do. He has lived on his own in Paris for around seven years now and he knows other young men like himself who will frequently take women into their beds, but Feuilly has never indulged any such vices. He has never held a woman like this and he doesn't know whether he extract himself from under Éponine's soft, warm weight. She obviously didn't mean to drape herself over him like this, Feuilly concludes. He wouldn't want her to be embarrassed.

He takes a breath and wraps his arms lightly around her so that he can roll her over to the opposite edge of the narrow bed. In sleep, she clutches on to him and he nearly has a heart attack. What does he do now? Just as he is about to yank his arms out and hope for the best, she opens her eyes and they are staring directly at each other. There is a beat of awkward silence and then she sits up and pushes her hair back, looking down at Feuilly.

'Good morning I suppose,' she says with a hint of a smile and the tension dissipates a little. He stands and twists his hands.

'Hi. I didn't, I mean I wasn't trying to be _indecent – _that's to say, I was just,' he stammers. She silences him with an arched eyebrow.

'It's ok,' she replies. She twists her hair into a knot and holds it at the back of her head for a moment. Back arched and head tipped back like this, with the morning sunlight filtering through the grimy window, she is the loveliest thing he has ever seen. Feuilly does not engage in vices of the flesh but his art has made him soft to the beauty of the human form. On quiet evenings in the _Musain, _when they sit in the front of the café instead of in the back room, he watches the young couples sharing carafes of wine and studies all the ways in which a woman's body can curve. From waist to hip or from the upper arm to the shoulder, he thinks this is one of the most beautiful works of symmetry that nature has come up with. He wishes he could incorporate that kind of flawless beauty into the hummingbirds and flowers that he paints on the _feuilles _of his fans. She looks at him again.

'Like I said _monsieur, _you're definitely a strange one,' she tells him, getting up and stretching the night out of her bones. Feuilly can only stare at her. She watches him, as though she's waiting for something. When nothing happens, she rolls her eyes and hands him his coat.

'Thank you _monsieur_. I'm sure you have some place to be,' Éponine says. She reaches up to brush a stray curl from his forehead and then she is gone, the door swinging and the bed cold and Feuilly can only stand dumbfounded.

Éponine is not broken. She has not lived an easy life but she refuses to accept men who treat as though she is made of glass and gold. She has been beaten and abused by men who see her as an object to be used, but she has also been with red-cheeked, tousle-haired apprentices, boys who touch her with the kind of reverence she despises. They run their fingers over the fine bones of her wrists and tell her they do not care about the things she has done, that she is beautiful. She will not apologise for the life she has lead, nor will she let herself be an object of worship for a boy who thinks he can fix her just by loving her like this. Most of all, she does not want Feuilly to become one such boy.

She leaves his building and sweeps into the heart of the Latin Quarter, making herself invisible like she always has done, her silent footsteps belying the anger simmering below her breastbone. Her thoughts turn over and over as her feet carry her of their own accord. She thinks of Feuilly and his dark curls, his calloused fingers, his artist's touch, his awestruck eyes. She does not want this.

'Éponine!'

She comes to an abrupt halt and realises she is behind the house on the Rue Plumet _again. _It's Montparnasse, and this time he's not alone. It's still early, the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds and bathing the _Patron Minette _in a strange, ethereal glow. Worst of all, her father is with them, his face becoming more and more sour with every step they take towards her. Her heart slams but she is a Thénardier and she gives as good as she gets; she will not cede to her father's schemes this time.

'_Messieurs_,' she greets them, lifting her head and striding to meet them. They are imposing and scary but the _Patron Minette _know her father and they wouldn't lay a hand to her unless he did so first. There is, of course, Montparnasse and then Claquesous, who moves even more silently than Éponine, who you will never find if he doesn't want to be found. Babet is tall and thin and there are no limits to the crimes he will commit. He picks locks, steals food, robs houses, embezzles, solicits and engages in any number of dodgey dealings on the black market. Gueulemer is the brute force of the gang, Herculean in appearance but insufferably stupid. Her father is not a member of the gang, but they sometimes join forces for schemes that are too big for one man.

'A fine morning is it not? What brings you gentlemen here so early?' she asks, ignoring Montparnasse's leer and planting herself in front of the wrought iron garden gate, hands on hips. Claquesous narrows his eyes. 'Nothing of your concern _mademoiselle, _now if you will kindly move out of my way, we have business to attend to,' he says, dangerously polite. Éponine does not move.

'Not here, my friend, it's just an old man and a girl in this house. Nothing here for you,' she replies. She keeps her voice bright, upbeat, but her stance is defensive. The rest of the _Patron Minette _draw closer, edging up behind Claquesous.

'You've got some nerve my girl, do as I say and get out of here now,' snarls Thénardier.

'I have no obligation to do as you say _monsieur, _if I remember correctly it was you who told me not to come back,' Éponine retorts. 'I say, there is nothing here for you. Now leave, or I will scream.'

Montparnasse chuckles at this and she catches the flash of his knife as he pulls it from his waistband. 'Don't try us little girl, we have things to do here,' he tells her. There is a moment of tenuous silence as they face off, Éponine squaring up to the most notorious street gang in Paris, and she thinks she's won until her father loses his composure and stumbles forward, lashing out at her. She screams, just as she'd threatened, and this only provokes his fury. The rest of the gang make a swift exit – they'd been promised a fair sum for helping Thénardier to ransack the _Rue Plumet _house but no amount of money is worth drawing the attention of the police. Thénardier lays in to his daughter and she tries to fight back, but ends up curled in on herself, willing the blows to end. When they do, she keeps her eyes shut tight and hears her father spit on to the cobbles. He doesn't bother to say anything else to her, just gives one sharp, harsh laugh before stalking off. No one comes. No one ever comes.

She slows her breathing and mentally assesses the damage. Her back is aching, she tastes blood and feels a warm trickle from her hairline in to her mouth. She sits, and her head spins. She is bitter with rage and hurt and she sobs, ugly and broken. She manages to stand and slowly limps down the back alley, letting the wall guide her and it's slowly progress but eventually she makes it down to the river. Her head has stopped bleeding by now, but there is blood dried on her face and she imagines that she looks a horrible sight. She wobbles and has to sit on the low stone balustrade that runs parallel to the Seine, lowering her head between her knees and trying not to be sick.

'Why did I come here,' she thinks bitterly. 'I don't even remember where he works.'

She loses track of how long she sits there, breathing deeply and trying to stay conscious, so when a hand comes down on her back she startles, a wave of dizziness washing over her when she stumbles to her feet. It's Feuilly. Of course it is. She looks at him blearily and she wants to hate him but she just doesn't, she just can't.

'What happened to you?!' he exclaims, his face full of horror as he tilts her head back to find the source of the blood caked to her face. Her pupils are blown wide and she struggles to focus on him, on his beautiful, kind face.

'I did try,' she begins, but then her legs forget what their job is, and she sinks down and after that, things are unclear. All she knows is his strong arms and his voice calling for help and she wonders how she ever doubted him.

When her eyes open, she is lying on a bed and there is a stinging pain at her hairline which she reaches up to touch. A hand catches her wrist and pins it to her side.

'Sorry _mademoiselle. _Just stay still for now.' It's Joly, the young doctor, smiling apologetically at the bedside. 'We're in the _Musain, _in the rooms above the café. It's ok now.' He gently brushes back her hair and despite never having spoken to this man, she feels safe and at ease.

'Feuilly?' she croaks. Joly's eyes harden, though his fingers remain soft.

'He is attending to business _mademoiselle_. He will be back soon.'

With the help of a friend from the market a little way down the row of _ateliers _on the river bank, Feuilly manages to carry Éponine back to the _Musain _where Enjolras, Combeferre, Joly and Courfeyrac are already making plans. Enjolras believes that the barricade will go up tomorrow and the others follow his lead. When Feuilly staggers into the café with the unconscious girl in his arms, Joly and Combeferre immediately abandon Enjolras to tend to her. Feuilly makes sure they have her securely before storming back out in to the street. He knows the _Patron Minette _will not be found if they don't want to be but he knows Thénardier by sight and knows where to find him.

Fury bubbles in Feuilly's stomach as he tears through the streets, heading back down in the direction of the river. He knows by now that Éponine does not saving, does not need charity, but he will not sit idly by as she is beaten half to death. He reaches the tiny square where he knows Thénardier will be. Feuilly walks through this way on his way to work and has often noticed a ragged family begging here, though it wasn't until he met Éponine that he discovered who they were. Sure enough, M. Thénardier is there, clothes torn, holding his younger daughter in front of him and beseeching those walking through for alms. Feuilly approaches.

'_Kind monsieur, _please spare a little for this starving child, I beg you!' he cries, his wife sniffling loudly beside him. Feuilly makes as though to reach into his pocket and Thénardier relaxes his grip on the little girl enough for Feuilly to yank him to his feet, draw back his fist, and hit him in the jaw. Thénardier stumbles back, shocked. 'Look here,' he yells, slipping into argot which Feuilly finds difficult to follow. 'What was that for, you've no right - '

Feuilly punches him again and a scuffle ensues which ends up with both men on the floor. Feuilly gains the upper hand of course. Thénardier has made his living by ruses and plotting and his body is soft and lazy. Feuilly made his way in life by hard graft and heavy lifting and fishing and he is strong beneath his ragged clothes. He ends up on top of Thénardier, who struggles and pants and swears

'You will not touch Éponine,' Feuilly spits out. 'You will have nothing to do with her from now on. You will not contact her. You had your chance and now it is gone. You will never lay a hand on her again, do I make myself clear?' Thénardier nods harshly and Feuilly gets up. He tosses a few coins into their alms plate and looks down at the pitiful man on the ground.

'At least take care of the daughter you have,' he says, before leaving, the square still in stunned silence behind him.

When he arrives back at the _Musain, _everyone is there, joining in Enjolras' planning. Feuilly nods to them before making his way upstairs and into the room where they took Éponine. She is sitting up in bed, eating soup ravenously from a bowl in her lap while Combeferre checks her head wound again. She looks up when Feuilly enters and frowns at his bloody knuckles.

'What did you do?' she asks. He shakes his head and sits in the chair next to her.

'He won't touch you again,' he replies and she nods. Combeferre glances at the two, both hardly more than children, just seventeen and twenty three years old. He knows what's coming tomorrow.

'Your head should be fine, just don't move too quickly,' Combeferre resolves, wrapping the bandage tight against Éponine's skull. He slips out of the room, but not before he notices the young girl wrap both hands around one of Feuilly's.

When night falls and the group downstairs is breaking up, buzzing with anticipation for what is coming tomorrow, Feuilly helps Éponine to her feet. There is no dialogue between them this time, they exit the café and they walk back to Feuilly's apartment building. Feuilly shrugs his shirt off and climbs into his bed next to Éponine, curling around her as they fall into a fitful sleep, dreaming of gangs and the river and the barricade that is sure to rise.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: I don't like this very much tbh, I always knew how the very end was going to go but I think I've probably messed up the beginning of this chapter. In any case, apologies for what is about to happen and thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with this story :) The French translations: the poem is the 'he loves me, he loves me not' poem that you say when you pick the petals off flowers. Translated, it means, 'He loves me a little, a lot, passionately, madly, not at all. ****_Pour toujours et à jamais, si tu veux - forever and always, if you want. On y va - let's go. _**

* * *

Feuilly wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright. Dawn is breaking through the shutters and Éponine is still fast asleep, curled on her side. Feuilly is bleary and confused and he can't understand what has dragged him out of his comfortable slumber until he hears hammering at the door. He gets up and crosses to the other side of the room, lifts the latch and opens the door. Courfeyrac is outside, flushed and excited and breathless. He's dressed in his outerwear but his coat buttons are askew and his hat is tipped at an angle – he clearly rushed out this morning. It's happening.

'Feuilly, it's happened. They're all marching now, to the Corinthe. Enjolras thinks the barricade will rise today!' he exclaims. At that moment, Éponine sits up and calls his name softly, 'Feuilly?' Courfeyrac focusses on the gamine in the bed and narrows his eyes at Feuilly.

'This is a dangerous game to play my friend,' he chides.

'It's not like that! You know - ' Feuilly begins but Courfeyrac stops him with a raised hand.

'Regardless, _monsieur l'artiste,_' Courfeyrac says, already turning to leave. 'The Corinthe. Be there as soon as you can.' Feuilly closes the door.

Éponine has risen and regards him uncertainly from the middle of the room. For the first time, she looks uneasy and she wrings her hands, as though she is uncomfortable in her own skin in this room. Feuilly reaches out for her but she knits her eyebrows and steps back.

'I'm sorry,' she says. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come, I shouldn't have got involved in this.' She tries to push past him, to leave, but he blocks her exit.

'Don't,' he says, he pleads. 'Please don't.'

She reaches out to cup her palms around his jaw and he realises that this is the first time her touch has not been in response to his. She's crying, he notices, and he can't bear this, not now, not today of all days.

'Why now?' she asks him as she weeps. She drops her hands. This is ugly and raw and again, he doesn't know what to do or say.

'This is not fair!' she rages. 'You know what's coming today! You know it! I know it! But I don't want this, not for you. This isn't for you.'

This time, when he folds into his arms, she lets him. He holds her likes this for a long time, rocking her gently as she sobs, before tipping her head back.

'Let's pretend,' he tells her. 'Just for now, let's pretend we're courting. Let's pretend we're bourgeoisie and we're going for a day trip together. We'll go to the gardens and we'll stroll around and laugh at the ducks.'

She meets his eye, takes a shuddering breath, and nods.

And so they pretend.

They go to the Luxembourg Gardens and Éponine takes Feuilly's arm and they walk together. He tells her about the designs he paints and she admires the way his hands gesture and how his smile breaks out at unexpected moments and lights up his face. Other couples give them odd looks but they walk like this for hours, oblivious. As the sun begins its descent, they stop in a secluded corner, Éponine on her back in the grass and Feuilly with his head on her stomach, both looking at the clouds.

'When I was a child,' she says, 'My father would show me shapes in the sky. If you look hard enough, you can make clouds into anything you want them to be.'

Feuilly turns so that he is laying on his front, looking up at her, his street cat, his queen. She glances down and touches her forefinger lightly to his bottom lip and does not pull back when he draws himself up onto his elbows to kiss her mouth with the softest of pressure. They lie on their backs in the grass until the garden has grown dark and when she sits up and takes his hand, there are no tears and no words.

They both know where they are going.

The walk is slow, leisurely. They're in no rush and Feuilly takes every second to appreciate the girl with her fingers laced through his. There is a stab in his chest when he thinks of the weeks he has spent with her. He still doesn't entirely understand what she has done to him but when her eyes meet his, there is both a warm flutter and a sharp pain. He imagines his heart both breaking and growing at the same time. She stoops to pick a poppy that has pushed up between the paving slabs and picks the petals as she goes, reciting the old children's poem:

_'Il m'aime un peu, beaucoup, passionnément, à la folie, pas du tout. Un peu, beaucoup, passionnément…'_ she tosses the last petal on the floor and looks at him with the cocked eyebrow that he has come to adore, a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. _'Passionnément monsieur?'_she asks. He swallows hard and nods. _'Pour toujours. Toujours et à jamais, si tu veux.'_

She stops, drawing him up short, and kisses him right there in the street, stretching on tiptoe to crush her lips against his. She kisses with the kind of finesse that Feuilly will probably never have and leaves him gasping. Her regard is serious this time and they stand, staring, breathing heavily, for a long moment before she drops his hand and sets off down the road.

_'On y va monsieur,'_ she calls back, and, like always, he follows, his heart in his throat, choking him.

She hears the gunfire and her face is set as she strides out towards it. They are coming up to the opposite end of the Rue de la Chanvrerie from the barricade and it's not long before they will be in the midst of the frenzy. They both know that once they go in, there will be no coming out. He takes her wrist and draws her up short.

He is the artist, he is the quiet revolutionary. This is not how he wanted to die. This is not how he envisaged their rebellion but now it is here, he cannot escape. He is scared. They are both going to go down in flames and gun powder and their blood will paint the streets red and there is nothing he can do.

He doesn't realise that he's crying until the resolve in her eyes breaks down and her hands come up to brush the tears from his cheeks. 'Don't,' she says and the tears fall thicker as he begins to sob. His arms go around her and he presses his face against her shoulder as though he were a toddler clinging to his mother. They are little more than children themselves. Not like this, she thinks as she strokes his hair. Please not like this.

'_Écoutes-moi_,' she says fiercely, drawing his face up so it's level with hers. His eyes are frantic and his hands grip her elbows too tightly because she is their strength now, not him. She is a daughter of Paris. She lead him to her that first time when she walked out of the Musain and into the streets and now she will lead him to the barricade by the hand.

'This is the revolution, here and now, and we will not walk away. You will not leave your brothers here without you,' she tells him. He pulls away from her.

'But this is not your battle to fight. You don't have to be here Éponine. Why are you so prepared to offer up your life when they don't care about it? They don't care about who you are or how you lived so don't stand here and tell me that you care about this godforsaken battle when youknow that you will fall just like the rest of us and that it will have counted for nothing!' He is shouting at her by now and she cannot look him in the eye. Her hold on his face goes slack and she slumps against the wall.

He laughs harshly.

'So it's still him? Marius? This means nothing to you apart from dying by his side.' He turns from her and rakes his hands through his hair. All this time he had dared hope that what had grown between them over the last week was something that he could carry with him to this, the night of anguish. That he, the orphan, would not die in solitude. He had believed that when the time came, they would face the barricade together.

'My intention was clear from the outset. Paris is beyond redemption and I do not believe in this revolution,' she says quietly. His fist connects with the shuttered window of a building that backs on to the road. He is ashamed that he has been so blind, that he didn't see where this road would lead him. He leans his forehead to the wall and silent tears course down his cheeks.

'No!' she screams. 'Do you think I'm not afraid? Do you think I don't know what is waiting for us? Do you think I am happy knowing that I'm walking to my grave to die beside a man who I have not loved enough? There is no time left Francois.'

He whirls around because she has never called him by his real name before. She is crying too and he steps toward her and she raises her arms and he reaches and it cannot carry on like this.

'Don't ask me to make sense of any this,' she cries into his neck. 'There is no time left to understand.' She draws back and takes his face in her hands once more. 'But know that I believe in everything that you have ever said and done. I believe in you. And we will find each other again. Whatever comes next, I will be waiting for you.' He knows that when she speaks of what will come next, she doesn't mean in this life.

He nods and because there is no time left he kisses her hard, pressing her against him so he may at least carry a lasting memory of the scent of her hair and the feel of her slight body to the barricade. He understands what she is saying. She pulls away first and closes her eyes, palms tight on his neck, feeling his rapid pulse. Then she exhales slowly and turns without opening her eyes. She walks down the street without a backward glance.

He watches her go and for a moment he is taken back to that day a month ago where he tried to walk her home. This is not so different, he thinks. On that day she led him out and he followed her down an uncertain road. On this day, he will follow her lead again but he knows where the path ends.

We will find each other.

He pushes back from the wall and follows the street down to the sounds of gunfire and shouting.

I will be waiting.

And so will he.


End file.
